


And the Bible didn't mention us

by pixelinfandom



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-17
Updated: 2011-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-14 20:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixelinfandom/pseuds/pixelinfandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 6x11 tag.  Dean needs to run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Bible didn't mention us

**Author's Note:**

> [yourlibrarian](http://yourlibrarian.dreamwidth.org) betaed, many thanks to her. Remaining mistakes are most definitely because I cannot leave anything alone.

_Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop..._ Bobby is still blinking at Sam and all Dean can think of is to grab his brother and go, right _now_. He's hitting the top of a year-long adrenaline high, he’s shaky with it but he knows he’s gonna crash hard. He wants away from every reminder of the-Sam-that-isn’t and grab Sam, his Sam and _go_.

Dean’s pulling at the handcuffs but he doesn’t have the key and Sam just watches him. Dean can’t meet his eyes but he keeps pulling at the steel like if he wills it the handcuffs will just fall off of Sam. Bobby gets the key, silent and efficient, unlocking Sam. Dean rubs the red marks on Sam's wrists and doesn’t look into his eyes, and Sam is silent, letting him.

Dean is pretty sure he’s actually drowning in relief, in the release of tension that’s had him strung up to the ceiling for who knows how long.

“Dean, Dean...” Sam is muttering, picking at Dean’s clothes, at his hands, grabby movements, nothing like the precision and force of not-Sam. Sam finally grabs his face and forces Dean to look at him, hands on his cheeks. Sam’s hands are wet and Sam is looking into Dean’s eyes, “hey hey, Dean, hey, it’s ok.”

“Ok, yeah, ok,” Dean can’t think to speak, what the hell do you say? “Let’s go, we should get out of here, c’mon.” Now that it’s occurred to him again all he wants is to leave, be moving.

He stands up and tugs on Sam’s wrists, Sam is wobbly standing up, and Dean shepherds him out the door and up the stairs without a chance to look back. They keep on moving, right out of the house and to the Impala. Sam cranks the back door open, crawls in and lies down and Dean sort of wants him where he can see him. But Sam is asleep before he can say anything, and it’s good enough for now. Sam is folded up asleep on the back seat and Dean will drive anywhere he can think of.

Bobby is standing on the porch, not waving, but watching them leave anyway. Dean drives, right turn, left turn, left turn and he doesn’t know where he’s going but west. It doesn’t matter.

Every few hours he peers back into the dark of the back seat. Sam is sleeping for dead.

After 10 hours Dean can’t see the road in front of him, blurring and weaving back and forth. He can’t remember the last time he could just sleep. He pulls his car off to the side, manages to get himself into the back seat with Sam and there is no way that it should work. This seat isn’t big enough for one grown person, let alone two, but he wants and he doesn’t think too hard. Sam’s breath is rhythmic against his cheek, he’s boneless, pliant and Dean falls asleep.

In the morning, Dean feels like he slept in a sardine can, which he sort of did, and Sam is not in the car. Dean’s sitting bolt upright and out the door before he can think, Sam peers around at him from his spot watching the sun rise from the hood of the car. “Morning,” Sam says, slow, like he’s not used to the word.

“Hey,” Dean’s shifting on his feet, now that he’s slept, the urge to move is back, to be away from that, from that moment. “We should, get some food, or something.” Sam nods, slow again.

“Yeah, ok.” Sam looks like it doesn’t much matter to him, which Dean tries not to panic about, because his Sam cares about things, even stupid little things. “I could eat.” Sam nods to himself, like he’s talked himself into it.

“Ok.” Dean says, sliding around to the front of the car, letting Sam take shotgun, like normal, like everything’s normal. Dean lets out the breath he was trying not to hold and he feels Sam’s gaze settle on him, it’s heavy and light, finally, grounded to something besides his own fear and fury.

Dean drives until he finds some Podunk down, nowhere USA, but it has a diner and it’s a moment to stop and breathe.

Dean orders the greasiest thing he can manage, a plate full of bacon and sausage with hash-browns and toast to sop up the eggs. Sam gets some toast and fruit and something that could be oatmeal, maybe. Dean tucks into his food like he hasn’t eaten in a week, and it could have been that long, he’s got no clue anymore. Sam picks at his toast, gaze flicking up to Dean occasionally.

Dean’s got a mouthful of potatoes and bacon when Sam draws in a breath and Dean knows, he just knows that Sam is gonna start bitching, about diners, about bacon and _give yourself a fucking heart attack already_ and the weather or whatever else and Dean can’t help but smile.

“What?” Sam barks. This isn’t how it goes but Dean can’t bring himself to care. He just stuffs another forkful of sausage into his mouth and smiles at his brother. Sam huffs a little, and goes back to trying to prod his food into tasting better.

Dean is grinning like a loon, Sam kicks his shin, trying to look pissed off but not really managing it, too worn down to get going. “Shoulda got the eggs Sammy,” is all he says.

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam steals a piece of bacon off of Dean’s plate and Dean is feeling so good he just lets it go, watching Sam munch thoughtfully on it.

When the food is gone Dean’s got the itch again, move move move, steady thrum in his head, in his blood. Sam doesn’t talk much, looking frayed at the edges, despite all the sleep he got the day before.

“I’m gonna sleep s'more” Sam mumbles as they head back for the car. Dean frowns a little, but sleeping Sam is better than a Sam who doesn’t sleep and it’s not like they’re on a time table. Sam curls himself onto the back seat again and Dean slides into the front, plays his music quietly, letting the road take him to wherever.

Three days Sam sleeps, and Dean is reminded of the time Sam had mono, a month of making him get up and eat, get out and walk around, watching him sleep, making sure he was still breathing sometimes. But Sam hasn’t slept for a year and getting your soul back probably really fucks with you, so Dean just deals with it. Sam is grouchy, sort of touchy, but he doesn’t mention it when Dean won’t let him out of his line of sight for more than about 30 seconds.

They hit Oregon at some point and Dean keeps right on driving until they hit the ocean, stopping that night with the Impala parked along the seaside cliffs, letting the noise of the ocean and Sam’s breathing lull him to sleep. They really should get a room, stretch out and get comfortable, Dean’s back hates him, but Dean can’t make himself give it up. Sam isn’t complaining about it, he grumbles about the music and the driving, but he doesn’t complain about sleeping in the back seat of the car with his brother like they’re kids again.

The next morning Sam is still in the car when he wakes up. They’re sorta spooned up, Sam’s arm draped over his side and he might be nuzzling the back of Dean’s head. It’s a little weird, and bizarrely illicit when Sam’s mouth brushes the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his back. Dean freezes, breath catching in his throat, and that seems to snap Sam out of whatever he was doing. He pulls back slowly, breath warm on Dean’s neck. “Morning,” Sam says, clearer than the day before. “Next time I’ll be the little spoon,” Sam says. It’s enough to break the tension.

“Better believe it.” Dean grumbles, letting the moment fall away.

Once they’ve both wiggled their way out of the backseat, Sam hands him his toothbrush from the back and they stare out at the ocean. The waves crash against the cliffs as they brush their teeth. It’s simple and domestic and Dean should hate it but he doesn’t. He just wants a string of days where the most he has to worry about is the next job, what way to point the car, anything but angels and demons and his brother.

Sam settles next to him against the car, still too quiet but at least he seems whole. “I don’t really, remember.” Sam says. “It’s like this weird twisted up dream and I just...”

Dean’s heart feels like it’s in his throat, “Don’t, just don’t. Leave it Sam, let it alone.”

He feels Sam’s gaze and he can’t meet it right now, tendrils of panic in his guts. Maybe they can’t, forever but they can have a little, a little while. Sam nods, and Dean can’t decide if he wants Sam to argue with him or not. Dean stares down at the water, and even this far from the edge he’s got that swirly falling feeling swooping through him.

“C’mon, there’s gotta be a place with a bed between here and somewhere else.” Dean pushes himself off the car, ready to be gone.

Sam gets in the car, settling in the shotgun seat and the familiarity of it folds around him like a blanket.

They travel south along the coast, not looking for anything, not headed for anything. Sam stares out the window and doesn’t question him, lost in his own thoughts probably.

The pound of the surf follows them, near and far, like the beating heart of the world. They’d never been that fond of the water, not like some people. But for whatever reason Dean wants to stick close, feel the thrumming chaos of life, fill the endless silence with something other than the beating of his own heart.

Finally Dean pulls off. He knows a motel not far, he’s been there before, knows it’s there but he cant bring himself to say anything to Sam. He hasn’t been here for over five years, maybe Sam forgot too.

Dean gets them a room. Two queens. The clerk seems to want to make small talk, and it’s only after he’s walking back to pull Sam out of the car that he realizes she was flirting with him.

Sam is dead tired again, only up a few hours and he’s like putty in Dean’s hands. Dean gets him settled on one of the beds, tucked in, like he’s 5 again. Dean grabs the shower, then slides into his own bed and stretches out, watching quiet tv for too long, the images blur and flicker. He sleeps fitfully.

Somewhere between two am and dawn, Sam crawls in with him. “Nightmare,” Sam mutters. Dean is in that place between dreams and awake, but he tucks Sam’s head against his chest even though they don’t quite fit like that anymore. Dean sleeps.

Dean wakes up with Sam’s arm over his chest. He slides out of the bed before Sam gets up. Goes to get coffee. He can’t help but think it was a bad idea, it feels like a long drive back.

Sam is showered when Dean gets back. He looks a little rough around the edges, nothing anyone else would notice, but rested, happy. “Thanks,” Sam says, sipping at the not hot anymore coffee.

When they go out for breakfast, Dean can tell Sam is pretending not to recognize the diner. Dean watched him eat here with Jess, all those lifetimes ago, and Sam pretends not to notice where they are. Like it doesn’t matter.

Out in the parking lot, Sam looks around, looks at him. “Let’s go see the Grand Canyon,” he says, turning his face to the sun.

“You could stay.” Dean says. It’s not what he meant to say.

Sam looks around Palo Alto, like he finally recognizes it. “I don’t think so.”

Sam stays awake for a while this time, staring out at the desert. Dean thinks about how if Sam wanted to go, really, it’d be ok with him. As long as he was safe, a little happy, it’d be ok. It’s a weird feeling, too big to fit in his chest. He swallows around it and turns up Zeppelin.

Dean parks the car off the highway in the middle of the desert. There’s almost no traffic, it’s eerie after the ocean. He leans against the trunk of the Impala, watching the scenery. It feels hushed, waiting.

Dean stands there a while, not ready to sleep but not wanting to drive anymore. Sam gets out of the car, comes around to stand in front of him. “I’m not the same.” Sam says. Dean feels his heart clench, a spasm of something lost. “I wanted something else, I guess, but I probably didn’t want it enough.” Sam turns his head to look out over rock and brush, everything glows in the moonlight.

“You could...” Dean starts, but even he’s not really sure. He could erase these years? Go back in time? “You could have anything Sam.” Dean says, he knows that at least.

Sam is suddenly right there, in his space. “You’re always such a fucking idiot.” Sam says, rolls his eyes, but after that he gets this sort of fond look. “It was never about leaving you, not really, you never let me finish.”

Sam leans down, brushes his lips over Dean''s. Dean freezes, like maybe he got caught, but it’s more like a circuit completed. He fists his hands in Sam’s shirt, pulls him closer and pushes their mouths together -- a real kiss then, no going back. Sam’s hands are on his face, lips tongue and teeth, testing and teasing until breathing gets difficult and they pull apart.

They’re both panting in the dry air of the desert, shoulders heaving, Dean’s hands in Sam’s shirt and Sam’s hands around Dean’s face. Dean knows something somewhere is turning over, maybe his heart, could be the world.


End file.
